I keep my gaze shifting, not staying on one target too long, so I don’t draw too much attention to myself. More than I already do as the tallest motherfucker in this place, head way too closeto the paneled ceilings in here, with tattoos from my chin down already pulling every eyeball in here—female or male.
If it’s not lust they’re filled with, it’s fear, or curiosity at the least.
As long as it’s not recognition.
Laughing along with the others, right on cue, I keep up the charade in case anyone is watching me.
My monster kneads at the layers of my skin, trying to find a way out, maybe just stretch its legs and pace the perimeter, but I tighten the leash, determined not to cause a scene when there’s no reason to.
The skills I needed in my former life don’t come in handy as a chef, but there are some things you just can’t forget.
That feeling of balancing on a knife’s edge, one wrong move and your whole life taken away from you, that’s one I haven’t missed.
Impossible to get a full lung’s worth of air when you’re living under the pressure of an alternate lifestyle, getting by on crime. Every car that passes could be the one that turns you in, catches you, or rats you out.
I forgot how sweltering it was.
Should I have called the number on the card? Gotten a burner, driven a hundred miles away on my bike and rung the boss up? Or was it too late?
How long ago did they send that letter?
These questions have been eating me alive all day.
“No word yet?” The concern in Weston’s voice as his eyes find his brother’s pulls me out of my latest review of the patrons in the bar.
Wyatt shakes his head, his mouth a grim line.
“I miss that woman,” Ronnie says, shoving a hand in his pocket.
“We all do,” Wyatt mutters.
From what I’ve gathered, the Weiss girls went to visit their mom’s grave today. For the first time.
Wyatt’s been so on edge, every time a passing breeze hits him, he jumps for the phone in his pocket, checking for notifications.
“They’ll be okay,” Weston assures him. “They need this.”
Wyatt nods, cracking his neck, then taking his shot. Bullseye.
Ronnie grabs onto his shoulders and shakes him. “You’re a prick, you know that?”
The taller, dark-haired man’s scruff twitches. “Because I’m better than you?”
Ronnie’s sandy brows jump up his face as he laughs. “Yeah, is that not enough of a reason anymore?”
Wyatt shifts his head, barely inclining it. “Bro, you’re gonna be forty here soon.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Ronnie holds up his hands in front of his face, like his best friend is a horse. “I thought I told you not to use the F word. We have years to go still. Years.”
“Maybe you’ll hit maturity at fifty,” Weston tosses out, a mischievous grin on his golden face.
“Fifty? Why would you even say that?” Ronnie shrieks, diving for Weston, who dodges him easily, cackling the whole time.
“Where’s Wednesday Shortcake at?” Wyatt asks, interrupting the spat.
“Working, why?” Weston responds.
Wyatt shrugs a shoulder, his nerves still making him stiffer than usual. “Haven’t seen her all week.”
